Page 13 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

If I remembered the smallest detail about myself, I might know whether it was simply my cycle approaching, that at least would explain the state I’m in.

But I don’t.

Even the most ordinary knowledge of myself has been stolen, lost with the rest of me.

I steady my breath.

Only once my pulse has calmed do I move to the racks, selecting a short navy skirt, pleated and perfectly pressed. I pair it with a crisp white button down, and slip a pale beige Prada knit vest over the top. From a velvet lined drawer, I take a pair of soft grey socks, rising higher than the ankle yet falling short of the knee. The UGGs are the final touch.

I study my reflection in the mirror. I’ve always loved autumn outfits, they carry the effortless charm of a rom-com wardrobe, which I secretly adore.

Leaving the closet, I return to the bedroom. My hair is still damp, so I take up the dryer and work it through the lengths until it falls in soft, silvery waves down my back. From the front, just above my right temple, I separate a strand and braid it loosely, fastening the end with a delicate gold clip.

My fingers still.

It catches the light, a small crescent moon in polished gold, a diamond set at its centre.

Beautiful.

I can’t remember where it came from, but it pulls at me all the same. My eyes stay fixed on it...

“Close your eyes,” a deep voice says.

“Now open.”

A small box. A moon shaped hair clip. Gold, with a diamond set at the centre.

I look up, my chest lifting with a rush of happiness, a smile stretching so wide it aches.

The memory slices through me without warning.

“Ahh—” A cry tears from my throat as I fall to my knees, clutching my temples. White light bursts behind my eyes, searing and relentless. My breath turns shallow.

What was that?

A memory?

A dream?

A hallucination?

There was a man. Who was he? And why did it feel so important, vital, even, as though it mattered more than anything?

I try to dismiss it, to insist it was nothing but imagination. Yet when my gaze drops to the clip, still fastened in place, doubt coils tighter.

And I am no longer certain.

The urge to cry threatens again, undoubtedly the hormones.

I leave my bedroom and head for the kitchen, switching on the coffee machine. The grinder growls to life, the sound rousing me before the scent can.

I make myself a coconut cappuccino in a takeaway cup and set an Americano aside for Octavia.

Then I prick my finger, let the drop of blood touch the strip, and wait for the number to appear.

I’m running slightly low, enough to know I’d be foolish to overlook it. I slip a granola bar into my bag, add an apple, and gather a few more snacks to keep on hand. The monitor goes in beside them, along with my injection pen.

My backpack hangs from one shoulder. I slip my keycard into the pocket of my vest, take up the cups, and step into the corridor.